The Weed
No one harvests
the neglected weed,
though it sprouts and
begs
to be collected.
No one coos or sighs
with satisfaction at its
sight
in the window, though it
flowers just the same.
Poisons are given to it,
and it still comes back,
it
is pulled up from the
roots
and yet finds a way in.
Stacks of it are left,
spread,
and threaten to choke
out
the blossoms that are
prized
by others.
Happenings
Small events that mix
like paint,
give us brand-new
images, a car
won't start, a new
neighbor moves in,
the earth has begun to
cool
A song plays on the
radio that speaks
like a god to your
aching mind, a deer
stands beside the
highway and refuses
to cross your path, the
semi lurches
A photograph flashes
from nowhere,
your brother moves out
and leaves you
the exercise room you
wanted, you wake
up and find yourself
transformed
into a mythological
creature you never
knew existed.
Book Worm
Brown jacket, they push
him aside
but he cannot hear their
words
The look on his face
tells you he
no longer exists on this
plain
In fact, when he should
listening
or watching where he is
going
He is fighting some
dragon, or meeting
some beautiful girl, or
sitting
By the brook of a
narrative, just enjoying
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